


Swing Low, Sweet Chariot

by orphan_account



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Paralysis, Post-Series, Suicidal Thoughts, Vargulf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5068597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Roman's security staff see the white wolf, they spend three seconds shooting at it and then two hours on the roof, waiting for it to come back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swing Low, Sweet Chariot

The first time Roman's security staff see the white wolf, they spend three seconds shooting at it and then two hours on the roof, waiting for it to come back. Roman hears about this later, when the nurse has wheeled him downstairs to feed him lunch. (One of the most humiliating things about not being able to fucking move is that someone actually has to spoon-feed him now. That and, well. The catheter.) The house is old and even with the heavy carpets it echoes. Sometimes he lays awake at night, unable to scratch an itch, unable to roll over or jerk off or go downstairs for a glass of blood—during those long dark hours, he listens. The security staff wear a particularly heavy kind of boot, and he listens as they make their rounds, opening doors and closing windows, scuffing up the floors.

Now, downstairs in the cold light of day, he doesn't even have to close his eyes to hear them. There are two of them in the next room, both former building security from Godfrey Tower. Pryce's men. Black-ops. Roman's surprised they had to keep shooting for five seconds.

"This massive fucking animal, I swear, bigger than any wolf I've ever seen. And pure white."

"I didn't think this area got wolves anymore. Didn't that pack that was running around get taken care of months ago?"

"They must have missed one."

“Huh.”

“Well it was a bitch to see against the snow; I'm not surprised. That was the only reason we weren't hitting it. But this thing—I swear, the look in its eyes—" The guard speaking trails off, awe or unease in his voice, and after a moment Roman hears those heavy boots against the kitchen tiles, and sees him moving across the kitchen.

"You're both fired," Roman calls through the open doorway.

The man turns, and the other one comes forward too. "Sir?"

"You heard me. Get out of here." He pauses then, and if he could raise a hand, he would. "Actually, only one of you is fired. I don't care which. Whoever stays, tell your co-workers that if anyone shoots at that wolf again, I won't just fire them, I'll have them shot in the head and their body dumped into a millpond."

The guard blinks at him. “A millpond, sir?”

“I’ll find one somewhere,” Roman assures him. “And you, you’re the one who’s fired. Don’t expect a reference.”

 His employees know better than to argue with him, even if they don't always know better than to talk back. The guard is gone in minutes, and Roman is pleased to note he hasn't even stopped to change out of his uniform. Serves him right. That was Peter he was shooting at. Well, it was almost definitely Peter he was shooting at—Roman won't know for sure until he sees, but the description, the location—the feeling in his chest—

"Well?" he snaps at the nurse. "We gonna sit here all day? I wanna go out onto the patio."

The woman stares at him. "The—patio, sir?"

"The patio, yes. Are you deaf?"

"I—no sir. Would you like me to bring your coat.”

"Well, I'd really like not to freeze my balls off." Which is really sort of a dumb thing to say, because he can’t actually feel his balls anymore. (Another thing that fucking sucks about being paralyzed: he still wants to have sex, he just... can't. He ordered prostitutes once or twice in the beginning, but they just made him feel pathetic. So he hasn’t done that for a while. But he misses the warmth of a body and the sound of someone else breathing in the night, still alive beside him when he wakes.) The nurse doesn’t say anything, just nods and takes his plate away to the kitchen. He hears her heading upstairs a few seconds later, the short, sensible heels she wears click-click-clicking against the marble.

  


He doesn't even have to shout at the nurse to get her to leave him alone outside. He should probably fire her, too. Leaving a paralyzed man on his own like this with a wolf running through the forest, not a word of protest. But then, it's fucking cold out here. Even with a hat on he can feel it, bitter and raw the way winters sometimes get, with the dry air, the frost on his scarf when he breathes on it. It's the kind of weather that made him think of Peter even before; the kind of weather that made him worry. Was Peter warm enough? Was he safe? The same things he'd wondered about Shelly when she was missing, the things you'd probably wonder about anyone who was alone in the world, with nowhere to go, when everyone they'd ever cared about was dead or gone.

He hears the far-off crunch of snow before he sees the wolf. It's hard to make out, the guard was right, but the eyes—Roman could spot those eyes a mile off. They have a strange, eerie sort of light to them. And that’s what decides it, even before the wolf looks at him, even before it lowers its head, and starts forward.

“Peter," Roman breathes.

The last time he saw Peter, Roman was lying in the driveway surrounded by broken glass, his head turned to the side so he could watch his best friend and almost-murderer trot away from him. It was the last time he heard from anyone, except that email Shelly sent a few days later, telling him she was taking care of Nadia with some guy named Aitor Quantic, which sounds like something from a bad sci-fi novel and is obviously a pseudonym. It’s not like he can take care of a kid anymore, though. He can’t even take care of himself.

Peter’s doing okay, though—at least, he’s not dead, and his fur is clean and fluffy-looking, nothing like Christina had looked toward the end. He comes right up to the patio, and then up the stairs. Roman’s sitting a few feet from the railing, in front of the double doors, and it takes another six or seven steps for Peter to get close enough that Roman can really look him in the eye.

“I thought vargulves were supposed to be, like, batshit insane or something,” Roman says, “but you look alright. I mean, you know. Except for the fact that you’re a wolf.”

Even like this, though, Peter is beautiful. Like this, Peter is maybe even more beautiful, because this is what he truly is, which is something Roman always wanted to see again no matter how many times he’d seen it already. Peter without his skin; Peter with his heart laid bare. The last time Roman saw him, Peter’s mouth was pulled back in a snarl.

“Did you change your mind?” Roman asks. Peter’s close enough Roman can feel his breath, big hot gusts of air against the bottom of his chin. The tiny specks of ice on his scarf start to melt. “Are you gonna kill me? If you’re expecting a fight you’re in for a disappointment. And anyway, seriously, what took you so long? I know I wasn’t at my apartment but come on. That place is too small. I have a staff, now. A hot nurse. She feeds me grapes and shit.”

Peter’s expression doesn’t change, so Roman just keeps talking. It fills the silence. It makes him feel less self-conscious, and it means he doesn’t have to think about Destiny, or Miranda, or Letha; he can just look at Peter, at the raw power in those jaws and the hot breath against his face.

“Yeah, a hot nurse. Her name’s Eliza or something. I bet you’re regretting being a wolf right about now, huh? Well, you shouldn’t have done it, then,” Roman says flatly. “Or you shouldn’t have pushed me out that window, anyway. I’m fucking paralyzed now. I couldn’t pull you out again if I wanted to, so you can just—fuck off back to wherever you came from.”

He’s not looking, but he hears Peter flop down on the patio, a heavy noise like something dropped from a height. Roman groans, looking up, but there’s no help forthcoming. This is who Peter is, Roman has come to realize: he’s never there when you need him, but he’s always there when you don’t want him.

“I wish you’d killed me,” Roman says, still staring at the sky, at the wisps of frozen white clouds. “Can’t you just do it right now? The nurse’ll be inside for a while. It’d only take a second.”

He tilts forward a little in his chair, even strapped in, and for a second he thinks he’s going to fall. He thinks Peter’s going to do it. But then he sees Peter’s just laid his huge white wolf head across his knees, those eerie yellow eyes staring up at him with a fierceness Roman knows all too well. Peter’s not going to do it.

“Fuck you,” Roman says. “Fuck you. Just fuck off and leave me alone!” he yells, tilting his head back, but it doesn't do much good. The tears just run from the outside corners of his eyes instead. And then he’s really crying—gut-wrenching, full-body sobs, crying like he never gave himself permission to when Peter was still around to see, before. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Peter just shuffles a little closer. Roman doesn’t know what he’s trying to say by it, if this is an apology or a threat or if Peter’s just promising to stay with him to watch him suffer, or maybe Peter’s been just as lonely as he’s been these last few months. Not a wolf, just like Roman’s not really an upir anymore, but not human either. Neither one thing nor the other. Who are your people, if you’re a creature like that? Who do you love?

When his body quiets, and the tears have frozen on his cheeks, he just sits there for a moment and breathes. Peter’s head is still in his lap, but Roman’s feels hollow and wrung-out, and he can’t do anything about it anyway. His heart aches with relief—a phantom pain, but so strong he has to look away. It’s about the most embarrassed gesture he can make, now.

All around them, past the patio into the winter forest, the world is quiet. Somewhere out there, Destiny lies buried. Somewhere out there lies Peter's empty grave. Roman thought there'd be a grave for him out there too, once Peter killed him properly, but here he is, Peter's head in his lap, unable to bury his hands in that thick fur the way he wants to.

“You wanna—I mean, do you wanna come in?” he asks. His voice is still hoarse. “I just—don’t want you to freeze to death, is all. I could get the cook to get you, like, venison or some shit. Yeah, and a dog bowl with some water in it. I’ll get your name printed on the side, and one of those big dog beds. Only I’ll have to order it special, because you’re about three times as big as the biggest dog I’ve ever seen. I guess you can—share with me until it gets here. You know, if you want to.” He says it like it's nothing and then holds his breath, but Peter just looks at him and whuffs. It sounds almost like a snort. Whatever, that noise says, those eyes, that uncanny grin.

"Okay," Roman says, and smiles. "Good. I mean, that’s great."

And the thing is, it actually is.


End file.
